


you are the space behind my shield

by CallMeBombshell



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeBombshell/pseuds/CallMeBombshell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I get that your jeans are some sort of awful torture device,” Stiles says, making a pained face. “And you are some sort of masochistic freak who doesn’t like nice things. If it will help at all,” Stiles adds, looking earnest and sincere and vaguely desperate, “I will buy you different pants. I will buy you <i>all the pants</i>. But seriously, dude, why do you have to sit around on my bed wearing <i>no pants at all?</i>”</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are the space behind my shield

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wangler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wangler/gifts).



> LolaFeist posted [on tumblr](http://lolafeist.tumblr.com/post/33707184795/i-really-need-someone-to-level-up-the-derek): "I really need someone to level up the Derek hanging out in Stiles’ bedroom trope to like, in addition, Derek feels safe enough in Stiles’ bedroom to immediately remove his (offending) pants. And maybe Stiles is trying to do his homework but thighs everywhere and he’s seriously considering stocking up on some sweatpants to throw at Derek’s head when he unceremoniously disrobes and then grumpily rubs at all the creases and sore spots from his stupidly tight jeans. Rubbing and thighs are not fair."
> 
> I took that and, er. Really ran with it XD
> 
> APPARENTLY I HAVE A LOT OF FEELS ABOUT PANTS, GUYS.

"Dude!"

Derek looks up from the dusty tome he's been poring over. Stiles is standing in the doorway, face scrunched up, looking long-suffering.

"What did I tell you, man?" Stiles says, flinging out a hand in a wide, vague gesture. "I mean, not that it's not great that you're suddenly all gung-ho for hanging out somewhere where you're not likely to die of tetanus or black lung or something," Stiles goes on. "But do you seriously have to get all half-undressed the moment you get here?"

Derek blinks, staring. Stiles' face is doing that weird thing where it's caught somewhere between pouting and grumpy. It makes his lips twist up all funny and his eyebrows scrunch up. It'd be sort of adorable, Derek thinks, if he were the sort of person to use words like "adorable". As it is, it's just sort of hilarious. Derek's never been more grateful for his natural poker face.

"I told you before," he says, careful not to let any of his amusement reflect in his voice.

Stiles lets out an annoyed-sounding huff and drops heavily into his computer chair. "Yeah, yeah," he says, rolling his eyes and waving his hand around again. "Tight pants, only ones you have, you're comfortable here, yada yada yada." He shakes his head. "This is when I really wish I had a pair of sweatpants or something lying around," he mutters, glaring. "So that I could _throw them at your head_ whenever you decide it's cool to just, you know, strip down in the middle of my room for no apparent reason."

Derek raises one eyebrow. "Your genius plan for retribution is to throw sweatpants at my head."

Stiles huffs again and spins around in the chair. "So it's a sucky plan," he says, throwing his hands in the air. "So sue me. Look," he adds, "I get that your jeans apparently suck and that, for some bizarre reason I will never understand, you are determined to wear the same two pairs of pants and the same three shirts over and over and never buy more clothes, ever."

Derek shrugs. He's bought other clothes since he got to town, actually. He'd had to, once he'd realised he was going to be spending a lot more time that he'd thought getting clawed and bitten and thrown into and through walls and scraping around on the floor. After the first two shirts had gotten ruined by blood and dirt and irreparable tears, he'd given in and started buying packages of white tanks and t-shirts, easily replaceable, and starting saving his other clothes for times when he was less likely to end up fighting for his life.

The two pairs of jeans are the only things he still wears regularly. They're too tight, true; when he'd first gotten to town they'd fit him just fine, but since becoming the alpha he's put on muscle, almost without realising it, and the formerly-comfortable fabric now stretches tight across this thighs every time he moves. They're a bitch to run in, and worse in a fight, all binding denim and limited mobility.

He's kept them, though, out of some weird sense of solidarity. Somehow, despite all the scraps he's found himself in over the last few months, his two trusty pairs of jeans have managed to come through with little in the way of wear and tear. Mostly Derek likes to chalk it up to good quality and taking the brunt of the attacks against him to his upper body.

But there's still a tiny part of him that'd been superstitious as a kid, and it's that little part of him that makes him hold onto the jeans, like maybe if he keeps wearing them, they'll stay in good shape. Like maybe if they're kept unripped and undamaged, he will be, too.

So he wears them as much as he can, switches between the two pairs so he can wash them (because despite what Stiles likes to say, Derek does actually do laundry fairly frequently). He sleeps in them, runs in them, trains and drives and sits around the empty train depot in them. He doesn't take them off, and it's only partly because he's never certain when he's going to need to up and run for his life again.

Which is why it's so strange that he's sitting here, in Stiles' room, on Stiles' bed, wearing nothing more than a white tank and his boxers. The jeans are folded at the end of the bed beside him, because Derek can't quite bring himself to just throw them on the floor, irritating though they might be.

And it's not the first time it's happened, or even close to it.

Derek has a routine now, a method and a rhythm to the way he slips through Stiles' window and immediately goes for the button on his pants, peeling them off and then sitting down to poke at the red lines against his skin from the hard creases in the denim. There's a familiarity in the routine, the regularity of it strangely grounding. It's become something of a habit, even, sitting here in his boxers in Stiles' room while Stiles does his homework and spins around every now and then to glare at Derek, faint blush rising in his cheeks, and makes pointed remarks about how normal, civilised people wear pants.

And the weirdest part about it is how much Derek likes it. He likes being able to get comfortable, likes how it feels like he can breathe again once he's out of the tight confines of his stupid jeans. He likes coming here, sitting with Stiles, listening to Stiles' occasional muttered comments about whatever assignment he's doing. He likes the way Stiles' room smells, all deodorant-and-shampoo boy-scent and fresh air from the window he keeps open, the sweet smell of chocolate drifting from the bag in the closet where Stiles hides the candy that he loves but doesn't want his dad to find.

He's at ease here, Derek realises, and then feels vaguely surprised by how unsurprised he is at that revelation. He's calmer when he's here, the tension draining from his shoulders while the ache fades from his legs. His smiles comes more easily, though he still hides them from Stiles, and more than once he's had to tamp down a laugh. It's unnerving, almost, but Derek can't say he doesn't like it.

Somehow, Stiles' room, and Stiles in it, has become somewhere safe, somewhere Derek can let himself be vulnerable without the protection of his clothes, without the safety net of knowing he can run or fight at a moment's notice.

Stiles doesn't know any of this, of course.

Derek considers telling him for about half a second, but the words sound clumsy in his head, tangled with his feelings about _safety_ and _pack_ and the way Derek sort of likes having Stiles around. And anyway, Stiles' vaguely outraged expression every time Derek shows up and immediately strips down is just funny enough that Derek decides to keep quiet. So he just arches an eyebrow and tries not to quirk a smile when Stiles grumps at him.

"I get that your jeans are some sort of awful torture device," Stiles says, making a pained face. "And you are some sort of masochistic freak who doesn't like nice things. If it will help at all," Stiles adds, looking earnest and sincere and vaguely desperate, "I will buy you different pants. I will buy you _all the pants_. But seriously, dude, why do you have to sit around on my bed wearing _no pants at all_?"

The blush is back, red staining Stiles' cheeks, and Derek can see his pulse jumping in his neck. His eyes keep sliding to Derek's legs, crossed in front of him on the bed, and--

 _Oh_ , Derek thinks, _so that's how it is_. So he's a distraction, and apparently not an entirely unwelcome one, judging by the way Stiles has yet to leave, or throw him out. And it's not like Derek's unaware of the strange, easy intimacy of these moments. Derek is not the sort of man who approaches intimacy of any sort easily. But there's something disarming about Stiles, something in the flail of his limbs and he easy width of his smile that makes it simple to be around him like this.

Derek's gotten so used to everything being impossible, always ten steps out of reach and hell and back to get to. He deserves something _simple_ , he thinks. He feels the smile threatening to leak out, and this time he does nothing to stop it.

"You could always do the same," he says.

Stiles gapes at him, eyes popping. He's speechless, and ordinarily Derek might have a sarcastic comment to make about it, but for right now he's more than happy to sit there and let Stiles stare at him while the words sink into his brain.

"You--what?" Stiles sputters. "You want me to take my pants off?" He stares at Derek, incredulous.

Derek shrugs. "I mean," he says, purposefully casual, "if you're not _comfortable_ with it, that's fine." He stresses the word, watching the way Stiles' blush deepens.

"No," he says, "no, I'm--I mean. I'm totally comfortable! Right now. With my pants on."

He nods fervently, but Derek can't help but notice the way Stiles' eyes have drifted down again, stopping on the bare stretch of Derek's thigh. Derek's fingers are still rubbing at a sore spot there, where his tight pockets had forced his phone to dig into his thigh. Derek smirks slightly and rubs at the spot a little slower, watching the way Stiles' eyes track the movements of his fingers.

His face must be showing more than he'd realised, because Stiles jerks suddenly, eyes snapping up to Derek's face, narrowing suspiciously. Derek can't help it; he smiles, wide and amused, grinning at the way Stiles flushes even deeper, cheeks flaming from mixed embarrassment and arousal.

"Oh fuck off," Stiles mutters hotly, but he doesn't seem angry, and he doesn't make any move to turn away. "It's not my fault," he grouses, crossing his arms defensively across his chest. "You can't just come here all the time and be all... _that_ ," he waves a hand at Derek's general state of undress, "and not expect me to react!" He re-crosses his arms and sits there, frowning, trying to look more annoyed than Derek suspects he really is.

Derek grins, leaning back and bracing himself on his arms. "And what if I wanted you to?" he says lightly.

This time Stiles' silence is nothing short of stunned. He uncrosses his arms, leaning forward slightly as he stares at Derek. "Wait," he says faintly. "Wait, you mean you were _serious_? You weren't joking? About me taking off my pants?"

Derek lifts one eyebrow. "Since when do I joke about anything?"

Stiles stares, but he's starting to smile, just a little at the corners of his mouth. He gets up slowly, taking a few hesitant steps forward until he bumps up against the bed and then stands there, just a foot or so away, staring down at Derek with wide eyes. Derek doesn't move, just tilts his head and stares back, smile still playing across his lips.

"Guess there's a first time for everything," he says, a little soft, like he's maybe a little in awe.

It makes something in Derek's chest loosen a little, makes his smile soften at the edges, amusement shifting to something a bit deeper, a bit more real.

"Yeah," he says, smiling at Stiles. "Yeah, I guess there is."


End file.
